


orchids

by forgottenstonework



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: M/M, alternative universe, post civil war but not really?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-08
Updated: 2016-05-08
Packaged: 2018-06-07 04:24:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6785074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forgottenstonework/pseuds/forgottenstonework
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Things calmed down. Eventually, the world around them stopped shaking.</p>
            </blockquote>





	orchids

Things calmed down. Eventually, the world around them stopped shaking. There was a visible tension in the air, an air that crackled with electricity and was heavy on the soul. It would get better. It would get better. It had to. It did.

He remembered when Steve looked from him to the shield and back again. He smiled, and walked towards him, and never looked back. The warm arm around his shoulder made him forget, if only for a second. He forgot the destruction he'd caused with his body. The pain and loss he'd incurred. Forgot the look in a man's eyes as he coughed his last breath, gurgling blood, and slipping away. It'd always be there, in his head and his hands, but so would Steve. They'd walked together out those doors. Steve wasn't leading him, wasn't forcing him. They were going together, off to any future they wanted.

It was a grey, rainy day. It was a heavy downpour, and a cold one. He had wrapped himself in a quilt and padded from room to room in his cocoon, finally throwing himself onto the chair by the window, until Steve had woken. The other man had on an old sweater, blue and thin and a patch of holes stretching over his right shoulder, and scanned the room until his eyes locked on Bucky. He smiled blearily, a piece of hair sticking up and out, and made the journey to the kitchen. When he returned he offered a warm mug of coffee, and settled on the floor besides Bucky's chair, his head on his blanketed-thigh. When Bucky suggested a lazy day of catching up on old films instead of whatever Steve had planned in that head of his, Steve only argued half-heartedly, murmuring that he was going to get out of shape. Bucky laughed, swatting him gently with his free hand. He'd never been so in love.

They slept in the same bed under the pretext of nightmares, that if one of them needed to be calmed down in the middle of the night, grounded back into reality, the other would be close by. Bucky knew it was more than that. They never talked about it. That was okay- really, it was. There were nights when Steve thought Bucky was sleeping, when he'd run his fingers softly through his hair and stare off into the darkness. Bucky hated those nights more than he loved Steve's small sign of affection. He'd watch Steve, those nights. He'd study the loss in the man's face, the guilt. He looked so young, so fucking young. He forgets just how young they both are. He knows that nine out of ten things, Steve's thinking something along the lines of  _I should have saved you._ Those were the nights Bucky wished he had the courage to reach up and cup Steve's face, pull it close to his own, and whisper that he saved him everyday. 

Three words were always on the tip of his tongue. He wanted to say them more than anything, but somehow he could never get it out. He wanted to say it almost everyday, almost every moment Steve was with him. He wanted to say it when Steve tried to act suave and untouchable and tripped over a hole in the ground and they had to hold onto each other laughing. He wanted to say it when Steve was lost in his drawing, charcoal smudges on his face from when he absentmindedly scratched his cheek. He wanted to say it every breakfast, ever dinner, every time he fell asleep in Steve's arms. But he had never wanted to say it more than when Steve bled out in the street and his cold body was torn from his arms. He said it over and over now, his arm's wrapped around the white grave, but it was too late.  

_where are we going?_

_the future._


End file.
